Len Levinson - Without Mercy

“Gee, you got a lot of tattoos,” Kowalchuk said.

“Yeah, I like ‘em.”

A blond guy with a tooth missing rolled up his sleeve and showed Kowalchuk a skull with a Nazi helmet on it. “I just got this one two weeks ago and now I’m going to get a panther on my other arm.”

“Panthers are nice,” Kowalchuk said. He turned to the drawings again and tried to figure out what knife to get. The black-haired kid and the blond huddled around him.

“I like that one,” said the black-haired kid, pointing to a seven-inch dagger. “Maybe I’ll put one on my leg.”

“It’s too big,” Kowalchuk said. “I think I’ll get this one.” He pointed to a four-inch dagger with red and green jewels in the handle.

“Which one’s that?” called out Tony from the other room.

“Four-twenty-nine,” replied Kowalchuk, reading the number underneath the knife.

“Oh that’s a good one,” Tony said.

“Hey Tony,” yelled the blond guy, “you should get an assistant in here.”

“I need an assistant like a rabbi needs a pig,” replied Tony.

Kowalchuk sat on a chair and twiddled his thumbs. The young girl sitting opposite him had straight black hair and an Irish pug nose. Couldn’t be more than sixteen years old. Above her was a drawing of a little boy peeing. Kowalchuk wondered what kind of an idiot would want that on his arm.

Tony finished with the blonde girl, and she stood up, looking at her butterfly in the mirror. “How much?” she said.

“Twenty-five dollars.”

One of the dark-haired Italian guys paid the money, and the girl came into the room where Kowalchuk was. The other girl got up and looked at the butterfly.

“It’s nice,” she said.

“Why don’t you get one?”

“My mother would kill me.”

One of the young guys went into the room with Tony, and Kowalchuk got up to watch from the doorway. The guy rolled up his pant leg and pointed to the side of his calf.

“I want it right here.”

“Which one was that?”

“Number three-fourteen. The dancin’ girl.”

“That’s a nice one.”

Tony left the room and came back with a sheet of plastic with the outline of the dancing girl on it. Tony’s shirt was open now and Kowalchuk could see part of a big blue tattoo, but couldn’t make out what it was. The lines were faded; it must be very old.

First Tony shaved the young guy’s leg with a straight razor. Wiping it off with a paper towel, he took the plastic sheet in his left hand and poured black powder into it. He wiped off the excess until only black powder was in the grooves that made the outline of the dancing girl. “Where do you want it?”

The young guy pointed to a section of his calf. “Right here.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah.”

Tony slapped the plastic sheet against the young guy’s calf, and when he pulled it away, the lines of black powder had transferred to his skin. He cleaned off the plastic sheet and left the room with it. Kowalchuk figured Tony kept the plastic sheets in another room because he was afraid somebody would steal them. Tony came back, sat in front of the young guy, and took up one of his electric needles. Wiping its tip, he dipped it in black ink, then bent over the young man’s calf and hit the button.

The machine began to buzz. The young man had his leg propped up on another chair, and the muscles in his jaw worked as the needle cut into him. Kowalchuk was fascinated by the way the blood oozed out and mixed with the puddle of black ink on his skin. Tony sketched in the outline of the dancing girl, and Kowalchuk remembered how the blood had gushed out of Evelyn’s throat. She was lying on her back on the bed and he was fucking her when he did it. The blood gushed out and he kept fucking her through her death throes. She hadn’t seen the knife coming; one moment she was alive and the next moment she was dead. She’d bled like a stuck pig, and Kowalchuk kept fucking her, getting smeared with her warm blood. He’d had a huge orgasm at the end.

Kowalchuk sat back down in one of the chairs and lit a cigarette. The young guys were showing each other their tattoos. Kowalchuk liked them, happy to be with them. He admired their young strong bodies and recalled how fat he was when he’d been their age, but he couldn’t stop eating in those days. He loved food and still did, but now he had to keep his weight down to fool the police.

Tony finished with the dancing girl and charged the young guy sixty dollars for it. Kowalchuk looked at his watch. He’d only been there a half hour and Tony had already made eighty-five dollars. That was some business he had. The young guy came out and showed his new dancing girl to the others, and whenever he moved his calf muscle the dancing girl wiggled her hips. They all were delighted by it.

Another young guy went in to get the ship put on his arm, then Kowalchuk would be next. Kowalchuk stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and closed his eyes, dozing a little. He’d spent last night in Central Park but it had started raining so he had to ride the subways to stay dry and get some sleep. But he hadn’t gotten much. Now that he had money he ought to check into a good hotel, but he couldn’t until he had some decent clothes. And he couldn’t try on decent clothes in a store unless he cleaned up first someplace. He hadn’t figured out yet how to solve this problem.

Tony finished the young guy’s ship and charged him fifty dollars. The young guy came out and showed it to his friends, who thought it was pretty nice.

“Next,” said Tony.

Kowalchuk went into the other little room and sat in the chair. He rolled up his sleeve and pointed to his forearm. “I want four-twenty-nine right here.”

Tony touched his forefinger to Kowalchuk’s forearm. “You got nice skin for tattoos. Who told you about me?”

“I heard some guys talking. I don’t remember where the hell it was.” Actually he’d heard them in the Metropolitan Garage, but he didn’t want to let on that he’d been a cabbie, because all the newspapers said that the Slasher was a cabbie.

The young guys and girls said goodbye to Tony and told him they’d be back for more tattoos. They left and Tony went for the plastic sheet of the knife tattoo, bringing it back with him to the little room where Kowalchuk was staring into the pot of red ink, reminding him of the blood of the whores.

Tony sat opposite Kowalchuk and stropped his straight razor. He pressed the button on a can of shaving cream and smeared some onto Kowalchuk’s arm. With a few strokes he shaved away the hair.

“I want you to write a word under the knife,” Kowalchuk said.

Tony wiped Kowalchuk’s arm with a paper towel. “What word?”

“Revenge.”

“Capital letters or small letters?”

“Capital.”

“Sure thing,” Tony said, reaching for the plastic sheet with the outline of the knife on it.

Detective Dorothy Owens walked into the detective division at Midtown North and saw three men sitting at desks. They all turned and looked at her.

“Can I help you?” asked one of them, who was sort of good-looking.

“I’m looking for Inspector Jenkins,” she said.

“Are you Detective Owens?”

“Yes, I am.”

The man stood and smiled; he was over six feet tall. “Hi, I’m Detective Danny Rackman.” He held out his hand. “We’ve been expecting you.”

She shook his hand. “Hello.” She was wearing green slacks and a brown sweater, her hair was honey-blonde.

“This is Detective Johnny Olivero and Detective Ed Dancy.”

“How do you do,” she said, shaking hands with both of the other detectives.

“Inspector Jenkins is right this way,” said Rackman.